


Invictus

by Kissa



Category: Chris Hemsworth - Fandom, Thor (2011), Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Cruelty, M/M, Party, Rome - Freeform, Sex, gladiathor, gladiator, invictus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:08:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kissa/pseuds/Kissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor is sent to Midgard into Ancient Rome, to learn about the darkest, most hidden desires of men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invictus

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Mentions of cruelty and depictions of actual habits that the modern person might be sensitive to. This is ancient Rome, so if you’re expecting a pocket full of ponies, look elsewhere. 
> 
> I do not own any of the characters and I do take many liberties with the facts so the whole thing holds together. Written for fun, not for profit, but I would appreciate the odd comment, if it’s all the same to you.

_It is said that the sadness locked within our immortal souls is the regret of not remembering our past experiences. Some say that might be a blessing, allowing us to hope and to grow with each lifetime._

***

This time, Father has sent Thor to Midgard on his own. Odin thinks the heir to the throne of Asgard should be knowledgeable of all the hidden recesses of the heart and mind, and what better way to learn the limitations of spirit than staring in the dark abyss of the mortals’ deepest desires? 

Walking among the mortals, Thor is not beyond harm. He also has to learn to hold his tongue and curb his arrogance. He has to learn to watch, and to listen. 

So here he is, seemingly just another traveler entering the Eternal City of what the mortals deem their civilized world. Thor is in Rome, and pretty soon he is spotted by the owner of a ludus. He bears no ownership markings, so he is presumed to be a free man. He is offered a chance at greatness or at a glorious death. Thor, being Thor, takes it, and thus he finds himself fighting in the arena, for the entertainment of Caesar and the Roman aristocracy. This crowd wearing fine linen and red is thirsty for blood, uncaring that men just as themselves are dying to supply it, for the fleeting amusement of one afternoon. 

So Thor fights, and he fights well. He has seen many battles and slain many enemies, but killing for sport drains his soul of pleasure. In the end, he stands covered in the blood of others, and they are chanting the name he has earned for himself. Invictus, they called him, the undefeated. 

The doors to the party villas are open for him now, and Roman aristocracy wants to see him from up close, the women want to strip him and touch him. He is offered their sweetened wine in chalices of silver, brought to him by beautiful, almost naked slave girls. 

In all of his travels and lessons, Thor has not seen a more atrocious way of power abuse. He cannot quite wrap his mind around the ease with which the mortals subdue one another, the one holding the bigger weapon claiming ownership over the weaker one. He has seen the marks of slavery, branded onto the skins of his fellow gladiators at the ludus, and could not fathom how some of them displayed them with pride. 

He also cannot understand the disgust mortals show towards the life of others, especially since their life span is short and but a drop in the mighty river of time. In this, he is still innocent, because he has never taken a life for the expected pleasure of it. 

The night progresses with more wine and stronger liquors, herbs which are smoked or inhaled, and all around him, the noblemen of Rome are coupling with their wives, the wives of their friends or their slaves. 

The rich praetor who is the host of the party claps his hands, commanding the attention of everyone in attendance. “We have a special guest with us tonight,” he says, “a man who has the favour of the gods. Jupiter and Phoebus must watch over him, for he has prevailed over all our champions in the arena! Tonight, dear friends, I have decided to award him a very special honour, which I hope he will not refuse.”

Thor watches as two house slaves bring forth a third one, a tall and slender man with white skin stretched over sculpted muscle. His head is covered in gold curls and pain shines in the clear blue eyes which fix upon Thor as soon as they are within eyesight of each other, like a silent plea. This man is awaiting death, Thor learns just from this one pained and unguarded look. 

The brand of the praetor’s house is fresh on the tender skin of the man’s left upper arm and it looks like it will soon grow infected. The slave is naked, his body hair removed to suit Roman aesthetics, but his forehead, chest and hips bear intricate blue ink markings carved underneath the skin. Thor is vaguely familiar with them, he has seen the wild tribes of the Celts and he knows their warriors adorn themselves with blue paint for war, and some have their markings etched into their skins permanently. Their women hold these markings in high esteem and find them appealing, and by the ones the slave before him is displaying, Thor can tell he was once a chieftain or a nobleman of sorts, taken prisoner in battle by Roman invader troops. 

“It is my hope that this gift will please you, Invictus, and that you will make use of it at once. As you can see, he was made ready for your use.” The host speaks. 

Saying no would mean tremendous offense towards the praetor, and probably result in him killing the slave, for whom Thor has already begun to feel. If anything can be done to spare this broken man from a swift and shameful end, Thor is willing to try. 

A silent understanding passes between them, the slave having understood what his fate is, scared at first and barely standing from shock. His eyes then seek Thor’s and seemingly see right into the god’s soul, calm settling over him again. 

A whip cracks and he is pushed to his knees. Thor is not attracted to men and the disgust at the Romans’ habits does not help either. 

“Kneel, slave, and please our champion!” the praetor  says, cracking the whip again. He hits carefully, enough to hurt and sting, but not enough to open the skin. The slave is on his knees now, on the marble floor, and looks up at Thor, a pleading look on his face. Thor must respond to his efforts, otherwise they are both dead. He reaches up with long, deft fingers, opening the toga Thor has been wearing for the evening. The sight of Thor’s enormous manhood even in its resting state seems daunting to the kneeling man, but his jaw sets; he is determined to succeed and takes Thor into his mouth, as deeply and as much as he can manage.  

Thor cannot help but thrust forward into the wet heat. The clear blue eyes look up at him so filled with hope and he forgets that he is not with one of the ladies of Asgard. His hand buries itself in the blond curls, caressing.

Too soon, Thor is fully hard, and the slave is pulled off of him, the sight of his wet, glistening and engorged manhood eliciting a gasp from the audience, who have abandoned their own encounters to watch him take the slave. 

A few steps away, there is a marble table of sorts, with small ridges at the sides, and the house slaves have already arranged the one meant for Thor onto the table. It is not comfortable, like the beds their audience are lying on, but Thor knows this is not for them to enjoy. 

He is given a small vial of scented oil to prepare himself, which he does with a small sigh. He would have words with father, back home, about the depravity of mortals and about father knowing full well of the demon pit he sent him into. For now, he slicks his eager member thoroughly, sparing a few drops of the soft oil for the slave’s entrance, which he finds readied for him. The thought that someone has touched the man so intimately with the sole purpose of oiling him like one does with a tool or a weapon makes him angry. Do these mortals not know that this man is somebody’s son, that perhaps he was a husband and a father before they wrenched him from his existence to turn him into a disposable vessel, worth no more to them than the cups they drank wine from earlier during the evening? 

Thor takes hold of himself and presses in with a surprised groan at how tight and hot the man is. He has never taken anyone this way, but he hopes he can perform to the end this evening, and buy the slave a few more hours of life, until they are both forgotten by the aristocrats and he can help the man regain his freedom. 

This man’s body is currently enveloping Thor’s hardness with such heat and pressure that he feels he might not survive the act. He has to seek support with his hands on the marble table, until his strong legs find their use again and then he can focus on tracing the man’s skin markings, which he finds beautiful and suiting the man, whose long legs come to wrap themselves around his hips, drawing him in and keeping him close. Thor has the consideration and the curiosity to caress the man’s nipples gently, smiling when his attentions result in arching and thrashing from his unlikely mate for the evening. 

He cannot tell at which point the room around them has faded away and only the two of them remain in the foreground of consciousness, surrounded and joined by the pleasure their bodies are sharing. The slave has a rapt expression on his face and is biting his lips heavily, making the most beautiful, needy sounds, and this is something Thor can work with, his Asgardian lovers having taught him to recognize a wordless plea for more when he hears one. But for now, he lets himself go, his release hitting strongly and unexpectedly. 

Then their spell is shattered cruelly by manic laughter and the flash of blades. The praetor has opened the slave’s veins with horrifying dexterity, as if he has done this many times, and everyone watches the blood seep into the ridges of the table and trickle down to the small holes, which the noblemen are using to collect the blood in their chalices and mix it with the wine. 

Thor’s anger knows no bounds, he’s withdrawn from the dying man, who still clings to him and makes a small, defeated sound which splits Thor’s heart into tiny pieces. 

He spits the praetor in the face, and soon swords pierce him and he falls unconscious to the floor, the slave’s open eyes fixed on him. 

Much later, he awakens from the smell. They are in a garbage pit in the back of the villa; the rising tide will soon come and wash them away if Thor does not carry them to safety. He is still weak, as his regenerative abilities have been strained by the three otherwise fatal injuries he has received. The slave’s body is bent at an unnatural angle and Thor collects him gently, slowly making his way out of the hole and not stopping until they are hidden from view. Luckily, the Romans threw his things into the pit as well, so he is able to locate his cloak and retrieve from it the concealed object. Removing the glamour which protects it from plain sight, Thor breaks the apple into two pieces. One he saves, and the other one he places in the mouth of the slave, hoping there is still life enough in him to make him wake briefly. “ _Swallow, my friend, if you want to live._ ” He whispers, caressing the hairless white jaw. The man does swallow - after a few impossibly long seconds of waiting, then takes a deep, deep breath, opening his eyes. Thor cuts his own palm, letting the blood smear the ugly seal of slavery, healing it, then he eats the  remaining half of the apple. 

The man he just brought back to life, and to whom he gave back his freedom, watches him in awe and speaks in his language, the only one he knows. Thor can understand him, the magic of Asgard making it possible for him. 

“ _Are you a god?_ ” The man asks, looking at his unblemished arm and at the spots where the blade cut his skin. 

Thor shakes his head. “ _There are no gods. Make good use of your new life and freedom. Cross the sea into the West, find a home, find a wife who will make you heirs and teach them well, so that they never fall into the depravity of Rome. Go, and never look back._ “ 

The man covers himself with one of the rags Thor salvaged along with his things, and makes to leave, and Thor’s heart is already aching when the man comes running back, literally falling against Thor and pouring all of his heart’s overflow into a kiss unlike any Thor has received. 

Thor allows himself to show weakness and does not push the man away. This time, they take their time tasting and touching each other, the strange man from the North giving himself freely to Thor. 

He is still asleep, blinking awake lazily only to catch a brief glimpse of Thor in his full Asgardian Prince regalia being lifted to the skies in an explosion of colours. The air is buzzing with electricity and it begins to rain, but it is a warm, cleansing rain, and the man’s blond curls stick to his head and face. He dances and laughs before he takes the road he god showed him. 

Back in Asgard, Thor wants words with the Allfather, but Odin cannot be disturbed. So Thor seeks solace with Mother, and plays with baby brother Loki. 

Many years after, when Loki is almost a grown up, Thor’s heart stops for a second as he looks upon his brother’s face and realizes that long ago, he knew a man with the same features… but that one had a head of untamed curls, while Loki’s hair is sleek and dark. Thor loves his little brother nonetheless. 

One evening, he goes to the Bifrost to contemplate the worlds and Heimdall says to him “ _We sometimes see only what we wish to see…_ ” Then he summons a vision from Midgard down below, and Thor smiles at seeing the man in the vision, who tweets from iPhone happily, blissfully ignorant about his ancestors and how they came to the land they now call Britain. 

Loki watches from the shadows and is definitely intrigued.

(end) 


End file.
